


Inquisitor

by Starofwinter



Series: Inquisitor 'verse [2]
Category: Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 08:47:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8483041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starofwinter/pseuds/Starofwinter
Summary: Obi-Wan has been running for weeks and he is tired of it





	

Obi-Wan has been running for weeks.  He is _tired_ of running from the specter in black, the Inquisitor pursuing him  from town to town, planet to planet.  He has done this before, more than once.  A silent hunter with golden eyes is nothing new - Maul had done this, and he finds a certain grim measure of peace in the idea that if he dies, it will be in the same manner as his own Master.  This new Dark Side user is not a Sith, isn’t _Maul_ , but they are skilled at the pursuit.   **  
**

So he stops running.  He backs himself into an alley and prepares to make a stand.  He raises his lightsaber in a defensive stance, reaching out to the Force for guidance.  The Inquisitor’s signature feels like an open wound in the Force, bleeding infection and sickness - it is broken glass and twisted metal, shrapnel waiting to slice apart anyone who gets near it.  It’s barely recognizable as a signature at all, tortured into a mockery of what he knew in an instant had once been a Jedi.  “There is still hope for you, my friend,” he says quietly, though he ignites his lightsaber, ready for a fight.

The battle is fast and hard, blue light crashing into red over and over.  The Inquisitor knows his every move the moment he makes it, even as he recognizes hers.  They fight to a standstill that reminds him sickeningly of Mustafar, the same blazing yellow eyes staring back at him over crossed blades before they widen and flash sky blue for only a moment.  It startles both of them into falling back, and the Inquisitor kneels before him with a feral grace.  She reaches up to unfasten her mask, letting it fall to the ground, dust swirling around it as she presents her lightsaber hilt on upturned palms, her head bowed.  “ _Master_ ,” she whispers in a voice hoarse with years of disuse, but still familiar enough to put a blade through his heart.

_“Rán?”_


End file.
